


The Imp of the Perverse

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Affection, Aftercare, Aromantic Character, Asexual Character, BDSM, Caning, Discipline, Dom/sub, Hand Jobs, Love, M/M, Non-Sexual Kink, Queerplatonic love, Romantic love, Sex as Aftercare, Whipping, references to past abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-20 17:35:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17027079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: Moran is restless and hurting after the death of his hated father, doubting himself and his own strength of will. Moriarty decides it is necessary to discipline him to remind Moran how strong he truly is.





	1. Chapter 1

Once Moriarty went to the zoo, Moran by his side – a silly whim, no more (one might think it a nod back to his childhood, but the Moriarty children had never been taken to a zoo). There they saw a solitary tiger pacing restlessly in its cage. Perhaps it was remembering its freedom, its time in India. Or perhaps it remembered nothing more than life behind bars.

Moriarty recalls the look of distaste on his companion's face at the sight of the magnificent creature contained in such dour surroundings. He had also noted how Moran's finger twitched, as if pulling on the trigger of a phantom rifle.

“You must have shot a great many beasts such as this,” the Professor had remarked.

“Aye, but only in the wild. Less sorry looking things than this poor beast.” For a moment Moran's gaze had locked with that of the tiger – two dangerous creatures eye to eye – before Moran had turned away, almost sadly. “If I put a bullet through this one it'd only be as an act of mercy,” he'd said before walking away from the tiger's cage.

He reminds the Professor now of that tiger, prowling around like the animal in its cage. His fury is palpable, hurt and rage almost radiating from him in waves. He has knocked back his brandy in one gulp and seems intent on emptying the decanter of the rest of its contents before the night is even half over.

Professor Moriarty considers himself to be patient man generally – he has to be to endure some of the fools he regularly comes into contact with – and he supposes he is even more tolerant towards his companion, allowing the Colonel to get away with behaviour towards him that he would stand from no other. But there is still a limit to what he will put up with and Moran is coming perilously close to crossing the line that is Moriarty's patience with his infernal pacing.

“Colonel,” he says mildly, without looking up from his newspaper. “If you do not cease that right now I may be obliged to pin you to the floor and hold you there.”

This comment, uttered in so innocuous a tone, seems to surprise Moran enough to cause him to stop dead in the middle of the rug. He laughs though, baring his teeth slightly and showing precisely how seriously he takes such a threat.

“Do you think I speak in jest, hmm?” Moriarty glances up at last from his paper. It is impossible to read it anyway, what with Moran distracting him. “Do you think I could not do so?”

“Oh I know you _could_.” Moran does not underestimate Moriarty's physical strength, nor his capacity to figure out solutions to even the most seemingly impossible tasks often within the blink of an eye. He takes a step towards the Professor. “But I don't think you _would_.”

“Really?” Moriarty folds his newspaper neatly and lays it aside on the table. After this he removes his gold-rimmed reading glasses and sets these down atop the newspaper.

“No,” Moran says in a low tone. “You wouldn't, not unless I _asked_ for it.” A coquettish tilt of his head, a wry smile lifting the corner of his mouth as he regards Moriarty.

“And are you asking, my dove?” Moriarty queries.

Moran's gaze is fixed upon the Professor's as he answers. “I am askin'.”

Moriarty moves with a rapidity that many would not expect from him, grabbing Moran's arm, spinning him around. Twisting that arm up Moran's back, he forces his lover downwards onto the rug. A knee pressed to the small of his back keeps Moran there. Beneath him Moran jerks once, feels his arm wrenched just a tad harder, then stills. “By all means, chick, if you would like me to dislocate your shoulder then do keep on struggling,” Moriarty says softly, his face low against the back of Moran's neck. The whispered velvety tone of voice makes it sound less like a threat; more like a seduction.

Under him Moran trembles noticeably, but of course the sounds that come bubbling out of him are not those of terror, no plea for mercy, no panic; they are the sounds of pure mirth. He quakes only with laughter. “You wouldn't do that neither, not ever.”

“Do you wish to test me, my boy?” Moriarty presses his knee a little harder into Moran's spine.

The Colonel gasps, but he is still laughing. “Don't need to.”

Moriarty releases his hold on Moran's arm but instead of allowing him to get up he pushes him down to the floor. With a hand on his shoulder he rolls Moran over onto his back. As Moriarty straddles him Moran looks up at him and – ah, there it is finally: amusement fully eclipsing the impotent hurt and fury combined that has consumed him since the death of Sir Augustus Moran.

“Sometimes, Sebastian, you do try my patience so,” Moriarty tells him. When Moran tries to sit up slightly he only pushes him firmly back down onto the rug again, his hand splayed over Moran's chest. “Ah, no.” With his other hand he grips Moran's throat tightly, digging his fingers in, giving the Colonel a tangible reminder that he _could_ choke him if he wished to, and sees the spark of anger in his lover's eyes in response, the fear and the pain behind that, a complex tangle of emotions, none of which are truly caused by the Professor at all.

Very carefully Moriarty holds Moran like this until, with a somewhat overly dramatic sigh, Moran submits and simply lies there, looking up at the Professor, curious about where this is going. It could be sexual, but Moran is unconvinced that sex features anywhere in the Professor's plans for this evening. Moriarty is often hard to judge on such matters, his nature being what it is and his desires being unlike Moran's own. Something about the way he regards the Colonel now suggests he has something different in mind, Moran is merely unsure what. He is of course frequently not wholly sure what exactly the Professor has in mind to do with him, and does not that fact always send a shiver of excitement coursing through him?

Moriarty trails his hand up Moran's face before tangling it in Moran's hair, wrenching his head back. “You vex me so, pet,” he says, leaning forward, his face pressed close to Moran's. “That you are so clever, so cunning, so strong-willed, and yet time and time again you have allowed such a weak, cowardly excuse for a man as _Sir_ Augustus to undermine you.”

For a second or two Moran bites his lip, before twisting his face away as much as he is able. “You can never understand.”

“How can you think his opinion of you has ever been worth anything?”

“Because though I hate it, he was still my father.”

“In name, perhaps, yet he was no true father to you, only a brute.” Moriarty reaches down with his free hand and gently turns Moran's face back so that he can meet his lover's gaze again. “Does not my opinion of you matter?”

“Of course it does.”

“So when I tell you how strong you are, how brave, how loyal, how intelligent also... you believe me?”

“I...” Moran flicks his gaze away again. “I want to.”

“How much do you want to?” Moriarty asks.

“More than anything,” Moran says, glancing back, then adds, a beat later: “Sir.”

From this, and from the steadiness of Moran's gaze now, Moriarty knows he has Moran's acquiescence. “Perhaps,” the Professor says slowly, “I should discipline you for your doubt.” He knows of Moran's penchant for violence, of his self-destructive streak, of his habit of old of going out and brawling when he was hurting about something, as if intent perhaps on causing himself the physical pain to match the emotional torment he was in. How much better then to inflict that pain on the Colonel in a manner that is very carefully controlled, providing an outlet for his darker impulses, keeping his more reckless urges in check and ensuring that there is no lasting damage done to him.

“Perhaps you should.” Another brief smile flickers over Moran's face.

“Are you asking me for that?”

“Yes sir.”

Moriarty straightens up slightly, although one hand remains pressed to Moran's collarbone in a symbolic gesture of restraint. “When you were a child, your father used to beat you.” Others might intend this as a question, but from Moriarty's lips it is a statement of fact.

Moran swallows thickly and nods, once, sharply.

“In a manner that went far beyond what any reasonable parent might consider a just punishment.”

“Yes sir.” Moran's voice is quiet and hoarse.

“And always you could not simply hold your tongue, always you would be unable to keep from provoking him further, even though you knew he would only hurt you more in consequence.”

“Yes sir.” Moran speaks in a whisper still, startled that the Professor has laid it out in such terms, as if he had been there to witness all of this perhaps, yet that cannot have been so.

“And at Eton, they too used to flagellate you rather frequently, no doubt.” Moriarty smirks slightly at this, and even Moran smiles briefly, amused. “You could never help yourself, could you? Acting up, rebelling against them, no matter how much additional pain you might earn from that. One might even think you _wanted_ to be hurt.”

“It wasn't...” Moran tries to lift himself off the floor slightly but Moriarty roughly pushes him back down. “I don't think it was that, exactly, more...”

“The Imp of the Perverse?” Moriarty says, regarding him with a raised eyebrow and a smile playing over his lips.

“Yes sir.”

“Yet there is a part of you that does, I think, indeed crave discipline of that kind.” Moriarty brushes Moran's cheek with his fingertips. As his thumb comes close to the Colonel's lips, Moran impulsively kisses it. “Don't you?” Moriarty asks softly.

Moran lowers his gaze again. “Yes,” he says, still in barely more than a whisper. “From you, sir. Only from you.” Because it is different with the Professor, because he knows that whenever the Professor pins him down, blindfolds him, binds him, hurts him even (just a little), that all of that is done with care and affection and tenderness. Because he knows that after their strange games – during them, even – he always feels calmer somehow, more composed, more back in control of himself, even when he has given up his control to Moriarty. Some of the Professor's behaviour may even appear cruel, to an outsider, but Moriarty's own impeccable control, not only over Moran but more importantly over _himself_ , speaks of his genuine regard for Moran. Causing his companion real pain, real injury, real damage – be that physical or emotional – would be the last thing the Professor would ever wish to do; Moran believes in that absolutely.

Moriarty leans over him slightly again. “What do you, my dove, want me to do to you tonight?”

“Discipline me, sir.”

“And how, precisely, should I do that?”

“It's up to you, sir, I-”

“No!” Moriarty grips Moran by the hair again, tilting his head up a degree. The sound that Moran makes in response hardly sounds like a cry of pain however, more like a gasp of pleasure. “ _You_ tell me what it is you desire; _you_ ask me for what it is you want, what you _need_ me to do to you.”

Moran takes a deep breath, as if trying to steel himself to admit to this. “Sir, I want you to... to whip me,” he says. “Please, sir.”


	2. Chapter 2

In their bedroom Moran lies across the bed. He is barefoot now and, well, bare- _arsed_ too, as Moriarty had remarked in a manner that was mocking yet playful (because doesn't Moran just love it when the Professor uses such coarse language around him? Doesn't it always send a thrill through him?). Moran's tie and jacket have been removed and his trousers pulled down, but no more than that. It reminds him, inevitably, of being punished as a boy.

Moriarty too has removed his jacket but he still wears his tie, perhaps as a reminder of his control; of his authority. Standing in his shirtsleeves above Moran, he very gently slaps the end of the whip – a short riding crop with a loop of leather attached to its end - against his own palm, testing its suppleness, and he watches how Moran shivers at this slightest of sounds.

“How many strokes should I give you, pet?” Moriarty enquires. “How many do you deserve, hmm? Half a dozen?”

Moran laughs scathingly. “Please, I could take 'alf a dozen in my sleep without wakin'.”

“A dozen?”

Moran glances back over his shoulder, that wry smile on his face. “Afraid to actually hurt me, are you?”

“Twenty,” Moriarty says.

Moran holds his gaze for a moment before pressing his face back down against the counterpane. “Aye, that'll do for a start.”

“Always so insolent, Sebastian,” Moriarty remarks, and swiftly strikes Moran across his bare buttocks with the whip. He does not as yet put his full force into it.

Moran hisses through clenched teeth as pain flares through him, then fades into warmth. He laughs through his gritted teeth after. “And yet you do so like me that way,” he says over his shoulder. In the past often Moriarty has bound him, tied or shackled his wrists to the bedposts sometimes, but he wears no restraints now. He has no need of them here tonight.

“Even I have my limits to what I may endure from you,” Moriarty remarks.

“I've never found 'em yet,” Moran says. “ _Sir_.”

“Do feel free to keep on trying.” Moriarty strikes him again, with incredible precision, placing this second blow neatly across the slightly reddened line formed by the first. He hears Moran curse under his breath and sees the Colonel's hands clenching into the counterpane, then comes the laughter again. His Sebastian, always so provocative - with most people far too provocative for his own good.

“Though you were gonna 'it me, not bloody tickle me with it,” Moran says, grinning.

“So it is more pain you want, is it my boy?” Moriarty delivers three cuts with the whip in rapid succession, each layered over the last and gaining in force. “Like this?” Another blow, slightly lower this time. “And like this?” Another strike. The noise each makes as the leather end of the whip strikes skin is a sharp snap, not especially loud but in the relative quiet of their bedroom, backed only by the ticking clock and the crackling of the fire and some far more subdued noises just audible from the street outside, it seems louder.

Moran lets out a choked cry as the pain burns through his skin, through his nerves, as it sparks bright behind his eyes, the white heat of the initial strike and the muted warmth of its afterglow coursing through him. It is significant, even though there is a definite note of pleasure in the Colonel's pained gasps, for Moran is someone who tries to conceal his physical pain just as surely as he will try to hide his emotional hurt. Like a hunted animal he seems to fear revealing when he has been wounded, afraid that to do so will be seen as a sign of weakness.

For a moment his eyes are screwed tightly shut, until he opens them and very deliberately looks back at the Professor. “More, please, sir,” he says.

He is often like this, Moriarty knows, initially being cocksure, even taunting the Professor. The trick is to get him past that stage, to remind him just how much the Professor is capable of hurting him, all the while observing him closely and waiting for the moment when Moran truly begins to let go, and then very, _very_ carefully, pushing onwards. The most obvious indicator of this is when he goes quiet, save for his muffled curses and cries of pain, ceasing his verbal sparring. But Moriarty knows to look for the other signs too, the slight change in Moran's breathing; the way in which his gaze seems to become slightly vague, when he gains an almost dreamy look to him. These are the best indicators of the Colonel's state of mind, of his acquiescence to this queer game of theirs.

He allows Moran a moment or two to collect and compose himself before delivering the next strike. He hits hard but carefully, mindful to avoid hitting any part where a blow could cause lasting damage. Each impact of the whip against Moran's skin sends a jolt through Moriarty too that is certainly largely physical, the impact as the whip's arc terminates in striking Moran's flesh. Even though Moriarty holds and wields the whip with expert lightness, ensuring most of its energy is sent into Moran instead of being turned back upon himself, his grip must still be firm enough to ensure that the whip will not drop from his hand or even slip and strike Moran in some unintended location. There is also an emotional reaction too though when he feels the end of the whip connect with Moran's skin. _Pleasure_. How pleasurable it is to have control over another man in this way; to have the power to not merely hurt but to _harm_ him, damage him, break him, even, but always, _always_ ultimately maintaining such faultless control over _himself_ that harming, damaging, _breaking_ his lover would truly be the very last thing he would ever do. Perhaps the thing that most terrifies the Professor is the idea of losing control. He is not emotionless, not a machine, and though he believes that he has mastered his emotions far better than most human beings ever will, even he may lash out at times; even he is capable of losing control sometimes. How wonderful it is then to have such opportunities as this to test his limits, to have a man absolutely at his mercy, and find that instead of being tempted to abuse his power over him he maintains his own self-control as perfectly as he wields control over Moran.

The sweetest pleasure of all perhaps though comes not from the sense of power he holds in times like this, but from the knowledge that his Moran, his Sebastian, has freely given him that power over him. Moran cannot leave Moriarty's employment, they both know this, but being obliged to continue working for the Professor is a very long way from being obliged to be his bed-warmer and his (usually rather more metaphorical) whipping boy. Moriarty may have his occasional moments where he fears that Moran does indeed feel that he is obligated in some way to cater to every single one of the Professor's whims, no matter how dark or violent they may seem. But truly that is nonsense and Moriarty knows this really; knows that Moran craves all of this just as much, if not even more so, as he does.

This is not something that had ever occurred to Moriarty prior to Moran showing his willingness to participate in such outré games – that there was pleasure of a different kind to be gained from it. That he could delight in physically dominating another seemed obvious to him, although it was a notion he had found extremely difficult to put into practice, it being hard – nay, nearly impossible – to procure someone who was suitably discreet, strong-willed _and_ with whom Moriarty felt comfortable indulging himself, until he found Moran. That he could experience such exquisite pangs of something he does not quite know how to name, some strange and nebulous emotion, when his companion chooses to submit to him; when he shows such absolute unshakeable trust in him... Moriarty had not expected that, and yet here they are, here he is making his Sebastian hurt, making him curse and whimper and cry out in pain and here again is that feeling, that desire to simply keep his lover safe. He knows that sometimes even for him these games may be about sexual desire, but not this time. Although his senses seem heightened and alert and he is, in some sense, _excited_ , he is not sexually aroused. His skin is slightly flushed but that has more to do simply with the physical exertion of manoeuvring the whip, as well as the warmth of the bedroom. His pale eyes seem to glitter also, perhaps with excitement, but that is still not exactly a physical form of arousal. For now this is about something that has really nothing at all to do with sex.

Moran's breathing has softened and slowed. He still curses when each blow strikes him, but it sounds more and more like it is an effort for him to remember words. After the twelfth strike, Moriarty lowers his hand, standing very still and patiently observing Moran. Moving to sit beside him for a moment, he lifts Moran's head up very gently. There are tears on his cheeks, although he looks far from sad or pained. Indeed there is something almost beatific in the manner in which he looks up at the Professor and Moriarty thinks, with a wry smile, that this is perhaps what a devout man might look like when he looked upon the face of God.

“James,” Moran says, his voice no more than a hoarse whisper. His eyes, pale too in colour, look darker; his pupils are wider than the Professor's.

“My dearest Sebastian.” Moriarty gently trails the leather end of the whip across Moran's buttocks, the lightest of touches but still Moran gasps as it brushes over his reddened skin. Is Moran sexually aroused at present? Perhaps a little, and yet even for him sexual release seems to be very far from his mind, a purely visceral response that does not concern him at this time. For now this remains about something else entirely, some deep dark need within him to take the pain and to push past it and just to simply let go, falling into a place where there is nothing but sensations and himself and the Professor, and where he is safe and cherished and cared for by the focus of his absolute devotion.

Moriarty brushes a tear from Moran's cheek with his thumb and feels Moran press against his hand, nuzzling against him as Moriarty flattens his palm to Moran's cheek.

“How many have I...?” Moran's speech sounds slightly slurred now, not excessively, but to an observer he might appear to have consumed far more alcohol than Moriarty knows he has really consumed tonight. Were Moran actually drunk Moriarty would not have led him here to participate in this tonight.

“A dozen, pet,” Moriarty tells him.

“I want...” Moran licks his dry lips. “More, sir.”

Moriarty bows his head slightly to ask the question. “How many more, my boy?”

“Another dozen, a hundred, a thousand.” Moran laughs, though this is not in the same mocking tone as his earlier laughter. This laughter sounds more like a childish giggle. He feels delirious now, his backside heated, but his whole body feels warm, even slightly feverish. He thinks dimly that where he touches Moriarty he must feel burning hot to the Professor. “Whatever you want,” he concedes, and buries his face against Moriarty's side, feeling the Professor's own comforting warmth, breathing him in.

“Whatever I want,” Moriarty says softly. What does he want, precisely? To break Moran down into a sobbing incoherent bleeding mess? To hit him until he cowers like a beaten dog? Of course not. What he wants is to show Moran how strong Moran himself is – so much stronger than others have tried to make him believe. This was never about punishment, not like Augustus Moran's intemperate beatings of his son for even the most trivial acts of perceived wrongdoing. Disciplining his Sebastian is about something else entirely. “We shall do as I originally intended and round it up to twenty I think,” he says finally. “Eight more strokes.”

Moran's gaze drifts with almost drugged slowness to meet his. “I can take more.”

“Eight,” Moriarty repeats, in a tone that despite its quietness leaves no room for debate. “Unless you make it clear to me that you wish for fewer than that.”

Moran shakes his head slowly. “Eight,” he says, lowering his gaze in a gesture of submission.

Tucking the whip under his arm temporarily, Moriarty draws Moran back to lie face down on the bed again. He runs his fingers over his lover's bare backside, over the stripes raised by the whip. Moran hisses slightly under his breath as Moriarty presses his hand to a particularly tender mark where several blows have overlapped, but there is no broken skin as yet, no blood. Moriarty wonders idly how hard precisely he would have to strike Moran to leave a permanent mark upon his skin but this is entirely abstract curiosity, no more.

Standing up straight again, legs slightly spread to better brace himself, he regards Moran with a look that might appear to be dispassionate and detached as he judges where best to aim the next strike.

When it hits, Moran's hands fist in the counterpane again and he gasps, face down, into the bedclothes, an almost silent utterance. Before he has time enough to fully process this blow however, Moriarty hits him again, just slightly below where the whip last impacted, then again almost immediately after. Moran is panting now, incoherent and breathless, looking entirely indecent even with most of his clothing still on. In contrast Moriarty looks almost impeccable, a few strands of his formerly neatly slicked down hair working their way down to fall over his forehead, but that is all. Still he seems perfectly composed, perfectly controlled, and perfectly controlling.

He leaves several seconds before applying the next stroke, and this time he allows the whip to remain pressed to Moran's backside rather than immediately withdrawing it. The sound that Moran makes in response to this, to the drawn out sting; to its spreading burn, is almost animalistic, almost a growl.

Four more to go, unless Moran wishes otherwise. Moriarty watches him carefully all the while, monitoring and evaluating all the time. Calculations, numbers, mathematics, they always have a place, even in the most _perverse_ of times and settings. Working out how best and where and when to whip Moran was not something he once would have thought he would be doing, but here they are. He runs the tip of the whip lightly across Moran's backside from left to right, a touch that despite (or perhaps even _because_ of) its lightness seems to torment Moran just as much as hitting him with it does, before he administers the next strike. Moran groans and shudders beneath him.

“Three more,” Moriarty tells him, although it is questionable whether by this point in time Moran is capable of remembering what numbers mean. With his next strike he again leaves the end of the whip pressed against Moran's skin for a few seconds before drawing it away, and Moran practically sobs in response, yet still when Moriarty gently and briefly lifts Moran's chin with the end of the whip, still the look in his eyes is not one of pain but one of absolute, utter bliss. “Two more,” Moriarty says.

“ _More_ ,” Moran whispers, although his voice sounds so frail and he sounds so lost that it is hard to be certain whether he is actually requesting more or merely echoing the last word that the Professor uttered. Knowing Moran as he does though, Moriarty suspects that he is requesting more than the two further strokes. When Moran's vacant gaze locks briefly onto his, any doubts he might have had about this vanish.

“Two more,” Moriarty repeats firmly, and waits for Moran to settle again before delivering the nineteenth strike. This one is softer than the last, very deliberately so as Moriarty seeks to bring this particular part of the game to a gentler end rather than an abrupt one. The twentieth is softest of all, a gentle slap with the end of the whip, though Moran still whimpers into the bedclothes at the touch of the leather on his skin. “All done, Sebastian.” Moriarty sets the whip down. “My dearest boy, you always make me so proud, do you know that?” He sits down on the bed beside Moran once again, hearing the bed frame creak softly. Leaning over him, he presses Moran down against the bed again as Moran tries to rise. “Ah, no, no, stay there.” He is straddling Moran now, using his weight to pin him firmly. If anyone else was to try such a thing then Moran would make a valiant effort to kill them even in his present incoherent state. But because it is the Professor atop him, the Professor's face close to the back of his neck, the Professor's familiar weight holding him in place, he goes very still and very quiet, feeling not trapped, not pinned, but like he is free and flying.

With his face pressed against the bed covers, perhaps deprivation of air plays a part in Moran's current state too. He hardly cares. Nothing else matters. All else is forgotten. There is only the two of them and that is all that concerns him.

Moriarty remains atop him for a couple of minutes, waiting until he is absolutely certain that Moran will be still. On the one hand it is a practical measure – let Moran up too soon and he will likely fall over and injure himself. On the other hand he still rather enjoys this continued display of his dominance over his companion and besides, this night is not yet over.


	3. Chapter 3

Moran is dimly aware of Moriarty's weight shifting and of being pulled, pushed, gently prodded. He lies with his eyes loosely closed and allows the Professor to get on with whatever it is he is doing.

Moriarty carefully and methodically removes the rest of Moran's clothes, lifting him or rolling him over where necessary and setting each item neatly aside. With equal tenderness he examines Moran for any injuries, his fingers gently caressing the marks made by the whip.

Moran has no idea where the basin of water or the cloth came from, nor the bottle of iodine. The water feels pleasantly cool as Moriarty gently bathes him. The iodine stings, though even then the pain seems to be something he experiences from a long way away, as if through layers and layers of gauze, or as if it is someone else's issue. He thinks absently of his mother tending to his cuts and bruises when he was a boy and he chuckles softly.

Moriarty regards him with a look of benevolent amusement. “Sebastian?”

“James,” Moran says as Moriarty eases him over to lie on his back, propped up against several pillows, but he seems too exhausted to put into words what thought it is that has amused him. Still talking feels like so much effort and his tongue feels thick in his mouth.

“Drink, Sebastian.” Moriarty holds the glass of cool water to his lips. When a little runs down his chin as Moran sips it, Moriarty dabs it away with the corner of a towel. Moran has no idea where the glass of water or the towel came from either. Of course Moriarty had them brought up by a maid who is paid very well to mind her own business about what her two masters get up to in private, but Moran was dozing at the time and remains blissfully unaware and unconcerned about any of that.

Moran is starting to shiver violently, his temperature seeming to drop sharply, so after he has finished drinking, Moriarty helps him into a thick towelling robe and drapes a blanket over the lower half of his body, smoothing the fabric out. He notices Moran's slight wince as he shifts position.

“Are you in much pain?”

Moran shrugs. “Don't really notice it right now.” Which is true, not merely him trying to be stoic and deny that he is hurting. Still he feels rather euphoric, almost post-orgasmic, but there has been no orgasm, no actual sexual contact at all, despite the undeniable eroticism of some of their acts together. There is certainly some soreness but it feels dim and distant, something that he is unconcerned about through the haze of pleasure and drowsiness he feels. It need not trouble him overmuch anyway; he knows that the Professor is meticulous in the way in which he physically disciplines him, never striking at bones or joints or vulnerable internal organs and that any slight bruises, scrapes or minor cuts that sometimes result are always tended to.

Moriarty tugs his tie undone and slips it off, tossing it aside before he lies down beside Moran. Slipping his arm around Moran's shoulder, he draws him close, Moran's head nestling against his collarbone, and pulls the blanket over them both. That Moran trusts him so completely when he has been so badly mistreated by so many in his past rather surprises Moriarty still. He is aware from his own occasional experiences when he has let Moran take control of him just how much strength of will it takes to allow oneself to let another take control. Moriarty does not mind a little pain mixed in with his pleasure from time to time but he would not want to take it to the extent of allowing Moran to whip him however; the notion does not interest him. He can at least begin to extrapolate from his own feelings though how difficult it is for Moran to trust anyone; therefore how much self-discipline it has taken for Moran to allow himself to trust Moriarty.

He feels Moran shifting slightly again, turning over half onto his side. Beneath the blanket he lifts his right leg slightly and presses it against Moriarty's leg, while he slides his hand across Moriarty's abdomen. The actions imply a desire for further physical closeness, a need to touch and be touched. That Moran also has an erection (which Moriarty can feel pressing against his hip, despite his own clothing and Moran's robe forming a barrier between it and Moriarty) is suggestive of course of a further desire. Glancing down slightly, Moriarty ponders this for a second or two. Still he is not in the mood for sex himself – there are times when he needs or wants that kind of release and times when he finds the idea of it unappealing, not distasteful, precisely, perhaps simply just tedious. This does not necessarily mean however that he is always similarly opposed to the idea of providing Moran with such relief.

“James,” Moran murmurs softly against Moriarty's neck. He lets his hand move a little lower down Moriarty's stomach but stops before he comes close to the Professor's groin. “Do you want to...?”

“ _I_ don't, not now,” Moriarty replies. “But I am happy to relieve you.”

Moran lifts his head as much as he is able in this position. It used to be anathema to him, the mere idea of any kind of sexual activity with anyone where the other party did not climax. It made him feel like he had failed in some significant way, as if he hadn't managed to give them pleasure – either that or else that he had been monstrous enough to coerce someone into sex who did not truly want it. But it is different with the Professor, even if it took Moran time to fully grasp that his companion is perfectly capable of obtaining pleasure of a different kind from such acts that appear, at least superficially, to be rather one-sided; also that Moriarty is hardly a man to be coerced into agreeing to acts he doesn't truly wish to do. When the Professor wraps a hand around Moran's prick it is because he wants to do so; he wants to see Moran lose control in a different way now; wants to watch him and hear him come undone.

“Professor,” Moran hisses, and he bucks against Moriarty's touch. His mouth is so close to the Professor's and it would be so easy to simply kiss him on the lips but he holds back, still uncertain about what Moriarty wants.

It is the Professor who kisses Moran, pressing his lips lightly to the Colonel's first, then when Moran closes his eyes and parts his lips slightly, Moriarty allows the kiss to deepen and become more passionate. Still he cannot keep from wondering what it is precisely that Moran feels when they kiss, what completely unconscious thoughts run through his mind, what chemicals produced by his body course through his bloodstream, what reactions run through his nervous system. By this stage of his life Moriarty is sure he can never have a similar reaction himself to kissing; he can never experience the direct gratification from it that Moran appears to obtain. That does not mean however that he obtains no enjoyment from the act, merely that what enjoyment he gets from it comes from a different source. His fulfilment is in how Moran – mistrustful, watchful Moran – frequently closes his eyes when they kiss, or in Moran's smile or soft moans of pleasure when he is kissed intensely, or how sometimes Moran will murmur Moriarty's name against the Professor's lips between kisses. Or it is in how sometimes he can push Moran to the brink of climax simply by kissing him for long enough and in the right manner.

He strokes Moran with a sure, confident hand, relishing the way in which Moran's breath hitches and he thrusts his hips slightly, seemingly without thought. The Colonel looks so beautiful to him when he is so vulnerable, so absolutely devoted to him and so dependent upon him in this moment. Moriarty's power at this time is the power to grant or deny Moran his sexual release, to give him or deprive him of that pleasure. It is the other side of him whipping Moran, its mirror image and its reverse, so very similar in some ways, so very different in others.

Moran has an arm wrapped around Moriarty's shoulders, clinging onto him as the Professor pumps his cock. With his other hand he lightly caresses Moriarty's cheek. Still his world is reduced to just the two of them, himself and his Professor, and a haze of sensation, physical feelings and emotional reactions, and he thinks, ' _God, I love you. I love you I love you._ ' Does not say it aloud; does not need to.

Moriarty thinks sometimes that the strongest, most intense form of power that Moran gives to him is not the potential for the Professor to break the Colonel physically, nor even to break his mind. It is giving Moriarty the power to break Moran's heart. Once he wouldn't have been able to make the slightest bit of sense of such a notion – yes of course he had heard of people fading away after some manner of loss, the death of a child perhaps, or the demise of a husband. Even animals may pine away after losing a beloved owner or companion. The term _broken heart_ seemed strange to him though, utterly meaningless, rather trite, even. So too the notion of giving somebody else one's heart; putting one's heart in another's hands, what was any of that supposed to mean? But back then nobody had ever looked at the Professor in the way Moran looks at him in these most private moments between them. Now when Moriarty looks into his lover's face he thinks that he can at least begin to understand how it is fully possible to break somebody's heart and destroy them utterly without necessarily ever even laying a finger upon them. He understands that Moran has put his heart into his hands; that he has given the Professor the ultimate power over him. _A Vila Mon Coeur, Gardi Li Mo –_ an inscription Moriarty saw inside a ring in a jeweller's shop once. Moran has given the Professor his heart, offering to him the power and potential to destroy him in a way no mere bullet or blade or vial of poison ever could.

Does Moriarty have his own 'Imp of the Perverse', a little demon sitting on his shoulder and whispering in his ear telling him to do very bad things generally for no other reason than simply because he can? Of course he does. Does he not even have, albeit very rarely, urges to do very bad things to his companion simply because he can? Indeed he does – fleeting thoughts about how delightful it might be to inflict a little more pain on Moran without warning, to push him a little further, and then further still. But he does not act on those; his control over himself remains perfect and he _knows_ that he will keep Moran's heart, that he will guard it well and treasure it for the precious gift he now realises it to be. There is power in breaking another but there is also incredible power in preserving them, in making them happy, in gaining and nurturing their trust. Perhaps some would consider Moriarty's behaviour towards Moran to be far from magnanimous – he has seen Moran go from a career as an honourable (or at least, _more or less_ honourable) soldier to the commander of a group of thieves, forgers, killers and the like as well as acting as Moriarty's chief assassin, after all. But the simple fact is Moran would likely have been long dead by now were it not for the Professor. Moriarty may have turned him into a very dangerous criminal, bosom friend of an even more dangerous criminal, but he has also saved him, and perhaps even more importantly than that, he has always tried to make Moran happy.

“James,” Moran says to him as Moriarty continues to stroke him, that one whispered word saying all that needs to be said aloud. The Professor's strong hand, so warm and rather soft save for the slight callous caused by holding a pen often, feels so good around his arousal.

Moriarty was never clumsy or lacking in confidence in the early days of their intimate association but when it came to certain acts he had requested guidance from Moran. It appeared he had little experience even when it came to touching himself never mind touching another man, yet he was not at all abashed about this – either by his lack of experience or the act itself – something which Moran had found oddly charming. He taught the Professor well, of course; now Moriarty always handles him with incredible skill, wrapping his hand around the shaft firmly but never too firmly, stroking from root to tip at first, shortening the strokes later though when Moran is clearly close to finishing. It is more than physical though. Moran could be being frigged by the most skilful person in the entire world and he would probably enjoy it very much, but if it was anyone else but the Professor it could not possibly feel like this, this half-delirious daze where he feels almost giddy, breathless, panting as the Professor pulls him inexorably towards the brink.

“My dove,” Moriarty says to him, and he kisses Moran on the lips again, very gently, very softly, but it is enough, more than enough, to pull Moran over the edge.

Moran tenses, comes with a strangled cry against the Professor's shoulder, panting after, breathing damp heat against the fabric of Moriarty's shirt in the seconds after his climax. He looks up at the Professor and the Professor smiles at him, pleased, fond, and that too is enough, more than enough, for Moran.

Moran's release coats Moriarty's fingers, not something Moriarty is ever especially fond of – the physical messiness of sex – but he carefully ignores his own sense of repulsion. He can wait a moment or two until Moran's breathing has slowed a degree, and does so, before finally reaching over to snatch up a handkerchief to wipe off his hand.

Moran looks dazed still, grinning contentedly up at the Professor as he sprawls on his back, one leg lifted slightly, bent at the knee, robe falling open so that he is exposing himself without thought, without shame. Clearly they are, Moriarty thinks, at a stage of their relationship where they are well beyond shame now. He has seen Moran in the throes of sexual passion - as Moran has seen him the same way - too many times now for Moriarty to keep track of. But he has also seen the Colonel ill, injured, inebriated even; in situations where Moran seems to have very little dignity left, and no matter how distasteful it might be to the Professor to deal with some of the messier parts of sex or illness or injury or drunkenness, none of those has ever lessened Moriarty's desire to care for Moran, to keep him happy, to keep him _safe_.

Moriarty sets the handkerchief aside to be dealt with later. For now he slips his arm around Moran again and draws him close, letting the Colonel nuzzle back up against his neck. Moran's eyes are closed; he seems sated and sleepy, although when he speaks his voice is clear enough.

“Did you mean what you said?” he asks. “About... bein' proud of me?”

“I would not say it if I did not mean it.” Moriarty brushes a strand of hair back off Moran's brow, then cups his hand around Moran's cheek.

“You say plenty you don't mean.” Moran opens his eyes and grins weakly. “You're a pathological liar when it suits you.”

“Towards other people, not to you.” Moriarty trails his fingers lightly down the side of Moran's neck, down his chest, finally dropping his hand lower to adjust the blanket over Moran.

Moran laughs, but it's true isn't it? The Professor not only lies to others, he maintains an entire dual personality - the rather boring, straight-laced professor and the daring, rule-breaking criminal mastermind, artfully tricking others into believing he is one and not the other. There are a few others who know of Moriarty's capacity for criminality but Moran is the only one who knows the full extent of what the Professor is capable of. And Moran cannot help but think also, were Moriarty wishing to exploit Moran's regard for him, were he wanting to manipulate him in some way, he could easily have reeled off a lot of endearments, declarations of romantic passion, trite sentiments gleaned from tawdry novels or from soppy greetings cards perhaps, believing that such things were what Moran wished to hear. Moran suspects that the Professor would still shy away from physical intimacy of any sort with another but he is certain that Moriarty remains capable of at least saying such things to someone else, if he has some grand plan in mind that necessitates he pretend to have romantic feelings for somebody. He has even done such things before. Such unspoken words, that he has not told Moran such things then, that means something significant. So too though do the words he _does_ choose to say to Moran, perhaps precisely because he does not seek to pad out the things he does say to his companion with false and meaningless adulation.

“I am proud of you,” Moriarty says. “You are strong, Sebastian. Also defiant; arrogant to the point of being almost insufferable at times.” He laughs now, and Moran grins too. “And I would never seek to change that about you.”

Still smiling, Moran closes his eyes again and snuggles more closely against the Professor. For several minutes they lie like this in silence, a silence that covers them like a warm and comfortable blanket. Moran would be quite content to remain this way for much longer, but eventually there is a knock on the door. At once he tenses, although he notes that Moriarty is unconcerned about this development and thus Moran immediately relaxes again.

“Your supper, sir,” their maid calls through the door.

“Leave it outside,” Moriarty calls to her. “Thank you.”

Moran opens his eyes again and glances up at Moriarty questioningly. “When did you arrange that then?”

“While you were distracted, my dearest Moran.” Moriarty slowly disentangles his arm from around Moran, careful not to jolt him too much so as not to cause him too much discomfort. “You need to eat, to regain your strength,” he says as he soaps and washes his hands in the basin on the washstand before drying them thoroughly on a clean towel.

“Whatever you say, sir,” Moran says, and grins coyly as he watches Moriarty stroll across the room, unlock the door and open it.

Stooping briefly, the Professor retrieves the large tray which contains a pot of tea along with the milk jug, sugar bowl and cups, as well as plates of sliced and buttered bread, slices of cold beef, cheese and fruit.

“You know I never really... expected any of this from you,” Moran remarks as Moriarty pours the tea into the two cups.

Moriarty raises an eyebrow and smiles. “Supper?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Ah, you're referring to me thrashing your backside, perhaps?” Moriarty carefully stirs the contents of each cup three times.

“That might actually be the least surprising aspect of it all.” Moran chuckles as he accepts his cup of tea from the Professor. “I mean...” After setting his tea down on the bedside table, he gestures vaguely, struggling to encompass not just the Professor's attitude towards sex, not only the physical closeness between them, not merely his care and concern for Moran's well-being, all of that and more besides. “I've seen a thing or two, or three, in my time; I knew there are plenty of men – women too for that matter – who like things a little... _rough_. I weren't exactly surprised that you turned out to be someone who likes to...” He ponders how to put this politely.

“To be rough?” Moriarty says, cutting a piece from the block of cheese.

“Yeah.” Moran grins again. “Other things though...” There is another side to the Professor, not only the teacher and academic, not simply the criminal organiser. This relaxed, carefree side to him, affectionate and playful, open to embracing intimacy with Moran despite his own lack of innate attraction towards such things, the side where Moran can sometimes refer to him as 'James'. This is the facet of him that only Moran truly sees; the face of the Professor that he likes the best, fond as he is of the other sides to him. Moran knows that Moriarty cannot return his regard for him exactly in kind but he does return it and in ways that Moran never expected him to. “I've seen people who liked to cane other people and that.”

Moriarty looks up from spearing a slice of beef on his fork. “ _Only_ seen them?” he queries. “Or did you, my pet, indulge yourself with them also?”

Moran laughs, although his gaze is lowered and his cheeks seem to flush slightly. “Not really. Not how it is with you.” Because he did not trust most of those other people, is the simple truth of it. Whatever dark desires Moran has long possessed in some shadowed corner of his psyche, it is not, as some might assume, primarily shame over those desires that has kept him from admitting what he wants. He just did not trust anybody enough to put himself entirely into their hands. “Anyway...” His face still seems a little flushed. “Some of 'em only seemed to care about that, the caning, not... you know... looking after them after. I never really expected you... to care.”

"Did you presume that I was utterly inhuman?” Moriarty queries. There is a glimmer in his eyes that suggests he intends this comment to be less than serious, although others have made such accusations about him in the past and for some reason that has sometimes stung him.

“Not inhuman,” Moran says firmly. “I just never thought this'd be something you'd like.” Because he is familiar with people not caring about him, enduring their indifference to him at best, or sometimes their outright cruelty towards him. He had truly expected nothing more from the Professor when he had first encountered him, even though he knew almost from the first moment that there was actually far more to this man than appeared on the surface.

“Neither did I,” Moriarty says as he hands a plate laden with bread, beef and cheese over to Moran.

The Professor is no out and out sadist, no torturer of animals; not a man who gets his pleasure by assaulting vulnerable people. He may _exploit_ people in various different ways, but that is a different matter. Even his desires to dominate and sometimes to hurt or to humiliate Moran are complex, rooted in the knowledge that Moran craves all of this, and motivated by Moriarty's high regard for the Colonel and for his strength of will.

He never expected either though to care for Moran in the way he does. Not romance, this – he has examined and scrutinised his own feelings towards Moran repeatedly, holding them up for comparison with what other people seem to feel, his conclusion being that he is not and never will be a man who is inherently romantic any more than he is a man with some manner of innate sexual longing for anybody. The relationship between them may well by now be, in essence, romantic, but Moriarty is not, not intrinsically. But he cares for Moran; he has long cared for Moran, shifting from merely being impressed by the Colonel's skill with a rifle and intrigued by his general attitude towards life to finding some protective instinct he had not formerly known he possessed stirred within him upon first seeing Moran at his most vulnerable. The feelings were novel, something he had never truly felt before, but what left him even more surprised than experiencing them was discovering that he enjoyed looking after Moran, caring for him, nurturing him even.

“You know, he... he used to tell me sometimes that... he only did what he did for my own good, when he took a belt to me, or a riding crop sometimes. That he only did it because he _cared_.” Moran holds his plate in his lap and his gaze appears to rest upon its contents as he says this. He does not need to specify who 'he' is. Moriarty knows.

The Professor stills and sits silently, letting Moran talk. This is more than the Colonel has ever revealed in one go before and even Moriarty can understand that this is a profound moment between them, one where for now he need say nothing.

“Sometimes I almost believed him,” Moran continues, and his face seems clouded with hurt, with scorn, with loathing even. “Sometimes I almost thought there really was a way I could make him proud of me. Of course that were a load of shit. I couldn't make him proud no matter what I did or didn't do and he'd never cared for me.” He glances up at the Professor again and the clouds clear almost at once, a smile breaking out on his face. There is still a slightly dazed look in his eyes - the lingering effects of the game they have played - as he looks at Moriarty. “It's different with you though.” He grins at the Professor, curiously childlike. “It's always been different with you, really. _You're_ different.”

“I might almost think you were insulting me there, Sebastian,” Moriarty remarks lightly.

Moran smiles still. “You know I ain't. You'd never want to be considered ordinary.”

A smile spreads across Moriarty's face. “True.”

Moran takes a bite of cheese and chews on it thoughtfully, his head lowered but his gaze still fixed on Moriarty's. “I'm glad he's dead,” he says finally.

Moriarty, watching him, remains silent in response to this, sensing Moran needs to say more.

“He can fucking rot in hell for all I care,” is what Moran does say next. The manner in which it is phrased is perhaps not wholly to Moriarty's liking but the Professor certainly appreciates the sentiment and the sheer venom behind the words. “I fucking _hate_ him,” Moran continues, and it appears that once he has started it is rather like a dam bursting. “I hate all of them – all those gullions and lickspittles who tormented me for _years_ , at Eton, Oxford, in the bloody army; the whole damned British empire and all. Those goddamned _hypocrites,_ as if half of 'em had never done the very thing they judged me for. Some of 'em it were _me_ they did it with! Oh but they were eager enough to sacrifice me and all my men when the war demanded it yet the instant they deem me to be an _embarrassment_ to them I'm made to _retire._ ” This last word positively drips with scorn. Moran still holds a piece of bread in his hand but it seems to be entirely forgotten.

“If you had not left India and returned to England I would likely never have sought you out,” Moriarty points out.

Moran smiles and the poison in his tone has dissipated when he next speaks. “Aye, that's true. Meeting you... it were worth going through all that to find you.”

Moriarty stares at him at this. Moran is still smiling, real warmth in his expression as he regards the Professor. Moriarty is uncertain what he is supposed to say in response, to a confession that seems somehow so enormous, so vast. Even now he only knows the vaguest outline of the things that Moran has endured in his life but even so, to be told that Moran thinks that meeting him after all that made all the suffering worthwhile... it seems utterly foolish, laughable even, but Moriarty does not feel at all like laughing.

“Moran,” he says. He puts his plate aside and shuffles over onto the bed so that he is closer to the Colonel's side.

It is moments like this that shake Moriarty, that cause his self-assurance and sense of control to waver, when he is reminded that even though Moran is so alike him in some ways, in others they are two very different men. Nobody else has ever had this effect upon the Professor. There may have been moments from time to time when his self-confidence has been knocked and times when the dark moods have taken him over and undermined him further but no person has rocked him in such a way before. But Moran does, not deliberately of course, but he does, because Moran, despite everything, is peculiarly sentimental. At heart he is a romantic and sometimes being reminded of this makes Moriarty even more keenly aware that he himself is not. This in turn makes him question whether he is enough for Moran, if he is truly able to make him happy as he would like to.

“Professor.” Moran pushes his food aside and reaches up to put his hand to Moriarty's cheek. “You don't have to say anything, _sir._ ”

It is that last word that causes a pang of pleasure to run through Moriarty's heart. Moran's submission to him has always been more symbolic than literal. At the start they were purely employer and employee, true, but even in the earliest days that they spent associating with each other something more had rapidly developed between them. For the first time Moriarty had found a man he could truly think of as his friend; meanwhile Moran had been steadily falling for the Professor. They could have shed the formality of Moran's manner of addressing him long ago, at least in private, but they did not, because Moran still so loves to submit to Moriarty. To refer to him again now as 'sir' in this most intimate moment between them is an expression not of reserved distance, nor is it anything like the insolent and mocking way Moran has often referred to his father, but it is a way for Moran to show his devotion by reminding Moriarty that he has given him control over him; moreover that he has done so because he feels safe and secure and _happy_ with the Professor.

Moriarty does not say anything, not right away at least. Instead he places a gentle kiss against Moran's forehead. “Eat some more supper,” is all he does say at last, but even that expresses so much more than the simple words might suggest superficially – so much affection and care for his companion.

Moran returns to eating his bread. “What I said before,” he says after a minute or two. “About... wanting to believe you... when you tell me all those things about myself; that were true, I want to believe you more than anything.”

Moriarty, having shifted away from Moran a degree to return to his own supper, regards the Colonel through slightly narrowed eyes. “But you still cannot?”

Moran does not show this side of himself to most, this vulnerable underbelly of his – of course he does not, for as a capable predator himself he well knows how quick most would be to take advantage of it. Most think of him as perhaps a little aloof and wary but also brimming with self-confidence, cocky to the point even of being insufferable maybe, because most never see past the surface with him. The notion that he might really be a bundle of insecurities and self-doubts beneath that surface would probably shock them; they might deem it impossible that this bold old soldier and former hunter of man-eating tigers could be anything but absolutely full of his own self-importance. Precious few others have seen something of his nature behind that conceited facade but only the Professor has ever glimpsed the true depth and breadth of Moran's diffidence.

Moran shakes his head. “I can, I do, because I trust you and I know you'd not deceive me over something like that, and I do know really... I ain't brilliant like you are but I know I _am_ clever, I'm good at certain things.” He pauses, grinning slyly. “Actually some things I'm bloody _brilliant_ at.”

Moriarty raises an eyebrow at this, understanding where this line of talk is liable to go. Beneath that though he is thinking how easily, how casually, Moran referred to _trust_. Not that the Professor didn't already know how much Moran trusts him, but it always causes a sweet flicker of pleasure to flash through his mind when his lover actually speaks of it.

“Best marksman _and_ cocksucker in the army, me,” Moran says, still grinning.

“I cannot say I have anyone else to compare you to in regards to the latter, but I shall take your word for it.” Moriarty smiles.

Moran sighs ruefully. “But I went years – _decades_ – with others trying to tell me I was weak, wrong, worthless, how I brought shame on them, how I'd never amount to anything, trying over and over to undermine my self-belief.” He shrugs slightly. “Sometimes it's hard to remember the truth of it.”

“Then perhaps I shall have to keep on reminding you, my dove,” Moriarty says, still smiling. “I shall have to continue to discipline you from time to time.”

“Is that a promise?” Moran asks. He laughs before he takes another bite of his bread.

“If you wish it to be.” Moriarty says this with his gaze locked to Moran's, questioning him without words.

Moran carefully chews and swallows his food before responding. “I wish it.” He lowers his head slightly in a gesture of submission. “Sir.” The manner in which he continues to maintain eye contact with the Professor though conveys the lack of passivity in his acquiescence. The slightly dreamy look has gone from his face now, and so has that air of barely contained fury and frustration of earlier. Here then is Colonel Moran back to his full vainglorious, playful self, almost precisely as the Professor believed he would be.

Moriarty fully suspects that the next occasion where he whips Moran will not be too far away, only next time the context will probably be very different. Not that Moran doesn't enjoy both types of game, but sometimes disciplining Moran is all about calming him and restoring the balance of his mind before he does something reckless and self-destructive. Sometimes however it is purely about the Colonel quite deliberately, even _flirtatiously_ provoking Moriarty into dominating him in some very physical manner, seeking pleasure wholly for pleasure's sake. Moriarty of course enjoys both situations too; both intrigue and interest him. Both also bring out his protective instinct towards Moran as well as his dominant side.

“Well then,” he says. “I promise that I will continue to discipline you.”

Moran laughs softly and sprawls back against the pillows to continue eating. His eyes still meet the Professor's though. Such words are hardly a conventional expression of one person's regard for another, but little else about their relationship is conventional. Such a promise is most apt for them, he thinks, and behind that thought lies another. Moriarty's words are a promise of more than simply some future odd game between the two of them; they also promise a continued relationship, continued intimacy, continued affection and care between them.

Moran too frequently lies and deceives people; he is still a consummate card cheat, and how many people truly know that he still occasionally, even now that he is no longer in the army, kills to order? But when he says that all the bad things he endured were worth going through to find his place with the Professor, he means that. Of course there are still things he would change about his past if he could, one or two people he would bring back to life if he were able to, but he cannot. Nor can he always easily cast aside some of the more traumatic memories of his past; there will always be times when he is haunted by some incident, some recollection from his previous life before he met Moriarty. Despite that though he has found something with the Professor that he has never found before – security, stability, a feeling of belonging, of being cared for. A sense of peace, even, for in moments like this he has shifted from being agitated and restless to feeling calm, relaxed and unconcerned about matters which troubled him only a few hours earlier. If what he has endured in his life before Moriarty was the price he had to pay to achieve this, so be it.

He reaches across, gently taking Moriarty's hand in his. He squeezes briefly; feels Moriarty squeeze back a second or two later. “Thank you,” Moran says softly.

“For what?” Moriarty enquires. The look he gives Moran seems so guileless; the question seems entirely genuinely, and is. Moriarty truly does not understand quite what Moran is thanking him for.

“For everything. For caring for me. Mostly... for believing in me even when I don't.”

“You only falter in your self-belief from time to time,” Moriarty tells him. “I merely give you a reminder of what you already know. Besides... you have always done the same for me.”

“You never doubt yourself,” Moran scoffs.

“Of course I do, occasionally.” Moriarty thinks for a second then with a smile amends this to: “ _Very_ occasionally. Still... you have stood by me, Sebastian, no matter what; I intend to do the same for you. Truly I never expected to come to care for you as I have done.”

“Your life might be simpler if you hadn't,” Moran says.

“And far less interesting.” Moriarty says this in that soft but ever so precise tone that leaves no room for argument. He rubs his thumb against the back of Moran's hand, a small gesture but one which often seems to have a soothing effect on Moran. “And now no doubt you are going to ask me, chick, if I have any regrets about entering into this manner of intimate relationship with you.”

Moran eyes him for a moment. “You're trying to predict the future now?”

“In some ways, dear boy, you are always predictable.”

Moran laughs before asking, “Well, do you? Have any regrets?”

“No, my dove.” Moriarty lifts Moran's hand to his lips and kisses him very lightly across his knuckles, and he smiles around this kiss. “No regrets.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I saw such a strong connection between people who hate ace/aro people and the 'anti-kink' brigade, especially those virulently against non-sexual kinksters, and I'm tired of seeing both ace/aro people and kinksters being portrayed as inherently abusive predators (especially as paedophiles) and monsters by bigots who make the most sweeping and disgusting generalisations about both groups and who love to blame all the totally innocent people in a group for the vile behaviour of a few actual predators. For me kink, both sexual and non-sexual, is a strong and recurring element of Moriarty and Moran's relationship and Moriarty is aroace. Going by the logic of aphobes and anti-kinksters therefore their relationship or any relationship like it can be nothing but an abusive one; I wrote this largely as a reaction to that idea.
> 
> A Vila Mon Coeur, Gardi Li Mo = Here is my heart, guard it well


End file.
